“Morgen friih,” said a voice, only it was not Pohlmann who spoke in German, but another man. Sharpe risked leaning forward again and saw it was Pohlmann’s servant, the man who spoke French and claimed to be Swiss.

“Morgen friih,” Pohlmann repeated.

“These things ain’t certain, Baron,” Cromwell said.

“You have done well this far, my friend, so I am sure all will go well tomorrow,” Pohlmann answered and Sharpe heard the clink of glasses, then he and Grace shrank back because a hand came into sight to close the open panes. The dim light was extinguished and a moment later Sharpe heard Cromwell’s growling voice talking to the helmsman on the quarterdeck.

“We can’t go down now,” Grace whispered in his ear.

They went to the dark corner between the signal cannon and the taffrail and there, crouched in the shadows, they kissed, and only then did Sharpe ask if she had heard the German words.

“They mean ‘tomorrow morning,’ “ Grace said.

“And the man who said them first,” Sharpe said, “is supposed to be Pohlmann’s servant. What’s a servant doing drinking with his master? I’ve heard him speak French, too, but he claims to be Swiss.”

“The Swiss, dearest,” Lady Grace said, “speak German and French.”

“They do?” Sharpe asked. “I thought they talked Swiss.” She laughed. Sharpe was sitting with his back against the gunwale and she was straddling his lap, her knees either side of his chest. “I don’t know,” he went on, “maybe they were just saying that we turn west tomorrow? We’ve been sailing south for days, we have to go west soon.”

“Not too soon,” she said. “I would like this voyage to last forever.” She leaned forward and kissed his nose. “I thought you were going to be appallingly rude to William at dinner.”

“I held my tongue, didn’t I?” he asked. “But only because my shin’s black and blue.” He touched a finger to her face, marveling at the delicacy of her looks. “I know he’s your husband, my love, but he’s stuffed to his muzzle with rubbish. Wanting officers to speak Latin! What use is Latin?”

Lady Grace shrugged. “If the enemy is coming to kill you, Richard, who do you want defending you? A properly educated gentleman who can construe Ovid, or some barbarian cutthroat with a back like a washboard?”

Sharpe pretended to think. “If you put it like that, of course, then I’ll take the Ovid fellow.” She laughed, and it seemed to Sharpe that this was a woman born to happiness, not misery. “I missed you,” he said.

“I missed you,” she answered.

He put his hands under the big black cloak to find that she was naked under her nightgown and then they forgot the next morning, forgot Cromwell, forgot Pohlmann and forgot the mysterious servant, for the Calliope was shrouded in the night, sailing beneath a slivered moon as it carried its star-crossed lovers to nowhere.

Captain Peculiar Cromwell was on the quarterdeck all next morning, pacing from larboard to starboard, glowering at the binnacle, pacing again, and his restlessness infected the ship so that the passengers became nervous and constantly glanced at the captain as if expecting him to lose his temper. Speculation flew around the main deck until it was finally agreed that Cromwell was expecting a storm, but the captain made no preparations. No sail was shortened or lashings inspected.

Ebenezer Fairley, the nabob who had responded so angrily to Lord William’s assertions about Latin, came down to the main deck in search of Sharpe. “I was hoping, Mister Sharpe, that you were not upset by those fools at dinner yesterday,” he boomed.

“By Lord William? No.”

“Man’s a halfwit,” Fairley said savagely, “saying we should speak Latin! What’s the use of Latin? Or of Greek? He makes me ashamed to be an Englishman.”

“I took no offense, Mister Fairley.”

“And his wife’s no better! Treats you like dirt, don’t she? And she won’t even speak to my wife.”

“She’s a beauty, though,” Sharpe said wistfully.

“A beauty?” Fairley sounded disgusted. “Well, aye, I suppose if you like getting splinters every time you touch her.” He sniffed. “But what have either of them ever done except learn Latin? Have they ever planted a field of wheat? Set up a factory? Dug a canal? They were born, Sharpe, that’s all that ever happened to them, they were born.” He shuddered. “I tell you, Sharpe, I’m not a radical man, not me! But there are times when I wouldn’t mind seeing a guillotine outside Parliament. I could find business for it, I tell you.” Fairley, a tall and heavy-faced man, glanced up at Cromwell. “Peculiar’s in an itchy mood.”

“Folk say there’s a storm coming.”

“God save the ship, then,” Fairley said, “because I’m carrying three thousand pounds of cargo in this bottom, but we should be safe. I chose the Calliope, Mister Sharpe, because she has a reputation. A good one. Fast and seaworthy, she is, and Peculiar’s a good seaman for all his scowls. This hold, Mister Sharpe, is fair stuffed with valuables because the ship’s got a good name. You can’t beat a good name in business. Did they really flog you?”

“They did, sir.”

“And you became an officer?” Fairley shook his head in rueful admiration. “I’ve made a fortune in my time, Sharpe, a rare fortune, and you don’t make a fortune without knowing men. If you want to work for me just say the word. I might be going home to rest my backside, but I’ve still got a business to run and I need good men I can trust. I do business in India, in China and wherever in Europe the damned French let me, and I need capable men. I can only promise you two things, Sharpe, that I’ll work you like a dog and pay you like a prince.”

“Work for you, sir?” Sharpe was astonished.

“You don’t speak Latin, do you? There’s an advantage. And you don’t know trade either, but you can learn that a damned sight easier than you can learn Latin.”

“I like being a soldier.”

“Aye, I can see that. And Dalton tells me you’re good at it. But one day, Sharpe, some halfwit like William Hale will make peace with the French because he’s too damned scared of defeat and on that day the army will spit you out like a biscuit weevil.” He felt inside a waistcoat pocket stretched tight across a paunch that remained undiminished by the ship’s execrable food. “Here.” He passed Sharpe a slip of pasteboard. “It’s what my wife calls a carte de visite. Call on me when you want a job.” The card gave Fairley’s address, Pallisser Hall. “I grew up near that house,” Fairley said, “and my father used to clean out its gutters with his bare hands. Now it’s mine. I bought his lordship out.” He smiled, pleased with himself. “There’s no storm coming. Peculiar’s got fleas in his trousers, that’s all. And so he should.”

“He should?”

“I’m not happy that we lost the convoy, Sharpe. I don’t approve, but on board ship it’s Peculiar’s word that counts, not mine. You don’t buy a dog and bark yourself, Sharpe.” He fished a pocket watch out and clicked open its lid. “Almost dinner time. The remnants of that tongue, no doubt.”

Midday came and still nothing explained Cromwell’s nervousness. Pohlmann appeared on deck, but went nowhere near the captain, and a few minutes later Lady Grace, attended by her maid, took the air before going to the cuddy for dinner. The wind was lighter than it had been for days, making the Calliope rock in the swell, and some pale-faced passengers were clinging to the lee rail. Lieutenant Tufnell was reassuring. There was no storm coming, he said, for the glass in the captain’s cabin was staying high. “The wind’ll be back,” he told the passengers on the main deck.

“Are we turning west today?” Sharpe asked.

“Tomorrow, probably,” Tufnell said, “southwest, anyway. I rather think our gamble hasn’t paid off and that we should have gone through the Straits. Still, we’re a quick sailor and we should make up the time in the Atlantic.”